The Flowerbed
by arbitraryink
Summary: Originally posted as Dahlia by xxKyani. The damage to her mind, her memory, is irreversible. When he had fought her in the war, he'd done something terrible. And now he pays for it. Avada Kedavra. DHr. One shot.


**Author Note:** Originally posted by user _xxKyani_ as "Dahlia." General revision and reposted with permission by author.

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He is beside her in the blossoming garden. Crouching, he is careful not to let the knees of his tan slacks be soiled by the mud of the flowerbed. There is still a meeting he must attend with her friend, and he wants no weaknesses shown. Gradually, as time passes, he turns his steel-grey eyes to examine her, as obliviously she presses her fingers into the dirt and pulls up weeds by their roots.

Today, her unruly, chocolatey hair (such a contrast to his nearly white) is pulled into a careless horsetail and secured with a bright ribbon, to match the sundress she wears. It doesn't seem to faze her that the lovely yellow fabric is staining beneath her – still, she sits and hums tunelessly as she rids the soft soil of unwanted growth. She is looking quite pretty today, despite the vacant look in her honey orbs. And suddenly, he feels the need to speak to her, to make sure that she still has her voice and that she hasn't forgotten how to speak, like she's forgotten so many things.

"What's this one called?"

"Magnolia. Isn't it pretty?"

"Yes. Very pretty."

"Do you know what its botanical name is?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"Oh… all right! It's… Uhm… It was… Oh, look, this is dendrobium orchid!"

"Love? Love, you were telling me the botanical name of the magnolia."

"Oh, of course I was. But see, isn't this one even prettier? Ixia. I'm quite fond of ixia, actually."

"Sweet, please look at me."

She turns her head, and he is struck suddenly by a sharp pang in his chest, right about where his heart had once resided. In place of the recognition that usually dawned on her face when she saw him, a slight frown furrowed her brows and her look was one of utmost concentration. "I'm sorry," she says, "have I introduced myself? My name is… oh, look! My dahlias are beginning to bud!"

"Sorry, what was your name?" It's getting harder and harder for him to play along.

"My name? Why, it's… it's…" Slowly, she trails off, eyes slowly growing wider and a look of panic beginning to settle on her face. "I am— I am— "

Finally, he can't take it anymore. To hell with what the mediwizard at St Mungo's had said, about letting her remember on her own. "Hermione, love. Your name is Hermione. And I'm Draco."

The panic leaves her features, and they smooth out back into the almost-dazed expression she'd been wearing for the past few months. "Of course you are, Draco. What a pleasant surprise, to have you here! Why, I didn't expect you to come for a visit until at least April! And how is your wife doing? I'm afraid I've forgotten her name again."

"Hermione, love." Now his voice is strained, and he's fighting hard against himself. "This is July. I know it's hard for you to remember. But please, _please, _can you try?"

"Oh, Draco, what do you mean? I haven't _forgotten _anything yet! Oh, my poor petunias, did Crookshanks trample you, that silly pup?"

In his head, he is shouting, 'Cat! Crookshanks is a cat!' But out loud, he only makes a strained noise before standing and stepping out of the flowerbed and onto the cement walk. Hermione doesn't look up as he does so. But when he's at the gate, he turns for one last glance back, and she looks up and meets his eyes. Visibly, she brightens.

"Oh, Draco! I didn't hear you come in! Would you like a glass of lemonade? I've just made some fresh this morning!"

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"I can't take it any more." Draco drops his head into his hands, shoulders beginning to shake slightly with emotion. "She doesn't remember… anything! Potter – Potter, she said to me today, 'How's your wife, I've forgotten her name again!' Potter, what the _hell _am I supposed to do?"

Harry Potter sits across from this man, this blonde-haired Slytherin, this cold-hearted Malfoy, and witnesses him breaking down. "There is nothing you can do, Draco," Harry answers quietly. "It was some spell you threw - the damage to her mind, her _memory,_ is irreversible."

The chair opposite him topples over backwards. Draco is on his feet, and breathing heavily, looking completely dangerous and utterly furious. "I _refuse _to believe that." With that, he turns his back (_screw_ Potter!) and starts to leave the cubicle.

"You know," comes the calm, quiet voice of Harry just as Draco is about to walk out, "You're not alone as you may think."

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It is later in the evening when Draco finally gives in. There is nothing left to do. And so he does it, in one of her rare, rare moments of recognition and remembrance. They lay on the bed together, side by side, foreheads touching.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, holding her close to him, his wand held in one clenched fist. "I don't want to do this."

"But you'll follow me, right?" she whispers in reply, cheek pressed against his chest, an almost frightened look on her face. "You won't leave me to do it alone?"

"I'll follow you. And Hermione? I'll always be beside you. 'Til death do us part, remember?"

"I remember."

"Never forget."

"I couldn't."

And with those last two words, he presses the tip of his ebony wand to her heart, lowers his head and kisses her deeply, feeling her smile against his lips. And then he barely pulls back, and murmurs two words against her lips, barely audible. There is a green glow against her shirt, and she relaxes in his arms.

"Hermione? Malfoy?" The front door of the cottage is opened cautiously, as the voice of Ronald Weasley echoed throughout the house. "Malfoy?"

He shifts, not releasing the girl who lies limp in his embrace, but entwines his left fingers with hers, the simple gold bands on either hand touching together. In between their joining palms is held Draco's wand. He touches the tip to his own chest, presses his forehead to his wife's once more, and smiles. "Avada Kedavra."

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It was the green light that alerted Ron and Harry where the two were. With a gasp, the boys thundered across the room and into the next, wands out as the door flew open. "Hermione!" yelled Ron. "Malfoy!"

"Ron!" answered Harry, wand arm slowly dropping as his eyes settled on the bed. "Hermione? Hermione, wake up." The black-haired boy shook Hermione's shoulder, then Draco's. Neither twitched. "Please, Merlin, don't tell me—"

"Harry. They're dead, Harry." Ron's voice was defeated, flat. "Look – he's holding the wand…"

"No," Harry murmured. "No, _they're _holding the wand. She must have remembered, Ron, remembered _something, _about the battle. Because, damn it, he wouldn't have given up, otherwise. He wouldn't have given up…"

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_ If you've read it, please review it._


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